Bezos in space – it is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of an unprecedentedly large fortune must still be in want of a way to convert it into a penis. Thus, the richest man in the world has announced he is building a 60ft rocket and going into space.
He and his brother will travel on the first human flight to be launched by the multi-billionaire’s company Blue Origin, 의 위에 20 칠월. The rocket is called New Shepard and, honest to God, it looks more like a penis than any other rocket yet made. I don’t know whether we should tell him or not.
그 동안에, I am stuck on the deeply earthbound matter of Lilibet Diana, the chosen name of Harry and Meghan’s new baby. Given my general tolerance, not to say complete disinterest, in what friends, family or famouses want to call their crotchfruit, I cannot believe how deeply I care about – which is to say hate – this drivelling, emetic, nonsensical (you don’t name someone after someone else’s nickname. You don’t. You just don’t. You know it, I know it, even if we don’t know why we know it) decision. Honestly, if this is what happens when you start letting civilians into the firm, colour me full monarchist now and for ever. Lilibet Diana. Give me strength.
At last, something to tell the grandkids about – the day the internet went down!
“It was during the plague,” I shall start. “Civilisation was already teetering on a knife-edge of survival. 그리고!”
“Yes, Grandmama?!” shall trill the infant holograms sitting at my feet, gazing into my ancient, wizened face from whatever planet to which we exiled the young from our spinning ball of dust in a desperate and futile attempt to ensure their survival.
“We couldn’t access Amazon!” I tell them. “Or gov.uk, or Twitch or Hulu! For over an hour! Nor CNN, nor the Guardian, nor the Financial Times, nor even the New York Times.”
“What are all those things apart from Amazon?” they will say.
“Never mind. 오, it was a long, dark hour! We tried to whittle our own Prime videos but the ancient arts had all been lost.”
“What caused it, Grandmama?” they ask in awed tones.
“There was a … an error,” I say. “In … in one of the big boxes that all the tubes of the internet go into? Or maybe a cat chewed one of the tubes? Nobody ever really knew, except for the people who understood the internet and I never met any of them.”
“Thank you, Grandmama,” they will say. “That was a very good story. Sleep now.”
“I shall,” I’ll say, drawing my rug across my knees. “I shall.”
Wow. Guys, you’re not gonna believe this. You know the government? Those guys? They were at school together, mostly look like they’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards? One clever one and the rest a sort of motley crew of blustering shites? And that other one who is a kind of skin tag on the body politic? Lives – I think? – under the stairs at Barnard Castle? 잘, get this – they’ve been found to have broken the law by giving a £560,000 contract to their other mates! I know. I know. The mind, it is blown.
To be fair, the fact that it has been judged unlawful is actually a little mind-blowing. I don’t know about you, but I was fully prepared for the judge to look at the evidence – long available in and to the national press – that the massive contract to look into public understanding of Covid had been handed, apparently unhesitatingly, to People First, a market research company run by former colleagues of Michael Gove and Dominic Cummings, and for the judge to announce after minutes of careful consideration: “Yeah, 과?” Instead, she reckoned “it gave rise to apparent bias and was unlawful.”
It’s a start, my friends, it’s a start. Let us hope there is for them much more and worse to come.
Apparently, we are all swearing more. I know, I know – you don’t fucking say, after the year and more we’ve had. According to a report published by the British Board of Film Classification, six in 10 people now use “strong language” (that’s “f***” and stuff, but without the asterisks because they take ages to say and really dissipate the effect you’re going for) in their daily lives, and a third say they’re doing so more than they did five years ago.
I bloody love swearing. More than that, I need it. It is my only release valve. I cannot cope with any form of confrontation – from open but reasoned discussion to screaming argument, these are virtually indistinguishable to me and I flee in abject horror from them all. But I still have feelings. Furious, furious feelings. A muttered volley of expletives is the only management route open to me. I know I should be able to rise above such things and move serenely through life wishing even those who add not to the sum of my happiness nothing but good. But unfortunately, they are just such ****s.
I strike the board of the beauty salon and cry “No more!”. I have given in. I have been hot, sweaty and vilely uncomfortable under the relentless sun and I have given in. I have bought a summer dress. I have bought long knickers so that I can wear it and walk more than three steps without falling to the ground clutching my abraded inner thighs in agony. And now I am completing the trinity of seasonal preparations and getting my legs waxed. I would shave them, but I am a female Esau and by the time I’ve got out of the shower and dressed they need doing again.
So here I am, readying myself for life outside, in daylight after a year spent in lockdown and hairy contentment and a week spent in sweat(pants)-soaked suffering.
If you are now reading this under blankets and staring at a weekend of thundering rain, I can only apologise. It was my hubristic depilation wot did it.